


Carthaginian Peace

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Depression, Dubious Consent, I promise, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Obsessive Behavior, Past Character Death, Psychological Horror, Resolved Sexual Tension, Survivor Guilt, Unreliable Narrator, in one short scene only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27117146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: A few days before a significant anniversary, Dom faces an unsettling reality in which nothing feels quite right. Eyes follow him everywhere, work fades in and out, time loses all meaning. One man could prevail over the impending doom, but...... he's slowly becoming part of it.
Relationships: Dominic "Bandit" Brunsmeier/Håvard "Ace" Haugland
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Carthaginian Peace

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of [dualrainbow's](https://dualrainbow.tumblr.com/) Siege-o-ween! 🎃 Make sure you follow them for all the other fantastic entries/events 🖤🧡

It starts about a week before the first anniversary, on a day so unwelcoming it’d best be spent in bed with a hot cup of something to stave off the internal frost, and yet requires the usual dreary drag of everyday life.

Though maybe it doesn’t start then, maybe its origin lies more days or even weeks back and he just failed to notice, so self-absorbed was he. So focused on the glimmer of hope illuminating his self pity.

Or maybe he just missed it. Or neglected to attribute any importance to what turns out to be -

  


But let’s start at the beginning.

  


Dom wakes up like other people zone back into a conversation. He can’t remember sleeping nor regaining consciousness, but he’s suddenly aware of staring at a fly bouncing against the inside of his bedroom window. He knows the significance of the coming day, of a year ago, and still hasn’t decided on what to do about it.

Whether to

( _they will know if he visits, they’ll know_ )

do anything about it.

His trusty jacket without a hood fails to protect him from the uncomfortable drizzle, though its upside is looking like he took a shower this morning. He returns nods in the corridors like a mute, afraid of betraying his inner turmoil by making use of his voice. The last thing he needs today is for anyone to inquire about his well-being. The familiar walls blur around him and it’s only by association that his brain registers he’s at work, occupying his desk. Laughter and crude comments echo in the back of his mind, turning into a macabre version of telephone where each conversational snippet seems to be directed at him.

Or, worse, refer to him.

They won’t be there late in the evening. No one is likely to be there then, yet the prospect of facing any of them petrifies him. Maybe Nicole will stay. Her numbness has been giving way to emotion lately – so he hears – and allegedly she’s prone to outbursts. Thinking of her causes his heart to pound and his chest to seize.

He’s set a low standard, so the lack of productivity raises no eyebrows. A monosyllabic exchange is reasonably fruitful, and fortunately, his taciturnity makes the rounds. No one else bothers him for a while. He could follow a lead, the kind he prefers because it involves nothing but talking, though when he’s asked to accompany his partner, he declines. Like this, he doesn’t want to mingle with the public. He’s worried

( _that_ _he’ll …_ )

the situation might escalate. He remains where he is, picking at a dent in his desk and wondering whether he can get away with leaving early.

He forgot about the pre-lunch meeting. When he’s reminded, he spits out a curse and gets up to confront his antithesis.

  


Håvard “Ace” Haugland is everything Dom is not: handsome, intelligent, faultless, the list goes on. He has a spring in his step Dom has never had, on his desk are photos of his family, and he’s climbed ranks like it’s a hobby of his. When he speaks, people listen, and when he posts selfies, people like. He once mentioned someone catfished a model with huge milk bags by using snapshots of his. When he’s not busy tonguing the chief’s arse, he lectures others on long-gone rock bands which are superior to current music in every way, and he scrambles to the front of every medical emergency, disregarding the fact that his skills are insufficient in the vast majority of cases.

By all means, Dom should hate his guts, despise him from the second he laid eyes on the tall Nordic overachiever, resent the new teacher’s pet who outranks and outearns him at almost ten years his junior. And while his initial thoughts about the newcomer were indeed x-rated, it wasn’t due to their bloodthirsty nature.

Unless one counted vigorous fucking as violence, of course.

The instant attraction felt like a punch in the gut first and later like the one shot of clear liquid too much: intoxicating to an uncomfortable degree. Dom’s mind was so occupied with bending Ace over every available piece of furniture that he didn’t even catch his nickname until two weeks later. He hovered at Ace’s periphery, enough to establish a presence yet still forgettable, and when he made a joke about wanting to befriend the newbie on the ‘Gram, he’s awarded the key to a whole treasure trove of wet dreams. He ended up beginning and closing out his days by spurting all over his own belly for three weeks in a row. In particular, the one picture where Ace holds up his shirt with his teeth while allowing the tip of his crimson-clad bulge to peek over the rim of the sink does it for him. Dom licks his path over the ridges of this well-defined chest and comes harder than he has in years.

He refuses to glance at himself in mirrors. Eye bags versus crinkling corners. Untamed mop versus stylish fade. Rumpled rags versus flattering apparel.

Neglect versus vanity. It’s obvious who loses. Never mind Ace being out of his league – Dom hasn’t been playing for years.

Someone’s mouth dropped two bombs in one sentence, causing a brief rollercoaster ride as Dom’s stomach performed a full flip: _ex-boyfriend_ is the first, and _girlfriend_ the second.

_Gay_ , was Dom’s initial excited notion, and _fuck_ his second, dejected. Bi and taken. He stops the wanking frenzy that day and can’t help the aftertaste whenever he’s relented since. It kept happening with irregular breaks but at least he’s managed to focus on Ace’s irritating quirks rather than his imposing physique. He’s morphed from object into nuisance.

Upon entering the room, Dom nearly barrels into a co-worker because sudden, overwhelming panic seizes his heart. Orienting himself is difficult with his pulse in his throat and a deafening roar blocking out everything else, and when he identifies the origin it’s no reassurance. Adapting and maintaining a new personality before unscrupulous criminals has sharpened his instincts and gifted him recurring attacks like the current one, but it’s rarely without a source.

Right now, the trigger is the sensation of being watched.

It’s a pull in the back of his neck, an uncomfortable prickling at the base of his skull. The feeling inspires instant and painful awareness of his surroundings and his own body language, the edge of his wallet peeking out, the pen

( _they could recognise the brand from another cop_ )

in his shirt pocket. Overhead, the neon tubes blind him, much too bright, and the worry of breathing too loudly has him stop entirely for a few seconds.

Almost like struggling back to the surface after a twenty metre drop into ice cold water, he fights for his sense of normalcy, reminding himself of where he is, with whom, why. The precinct is safe. He is safe.

When he comes to, Ace is looking at him oddly. He’s about to begin, having positioned himself by the whiteboard, marker uncapped, waiting for Dom to take a seat – to Ace, he just stopped dead and stared into the distance for a weirdly long time. Dom ducks his head and sits down, letting the meeting wash over him as he half-listens, preoccupied with the irregular pumping in his chest. The aftermath is never pretty, no matter how short the episode.

In front, Ace cuts an impressive figure. He never once falters when he’s in the limelight and reminds Dom of a used car salesman, only better dressed. Questions are posed to further cement his professionalism instead of an interest in the response and therefore Dom stays curt, despite the occasional mocking glance from those around him. Ace’s eyes linger on him, possibly hung up on his behaviour just now, curious, _knowing_. It’s almost like he directs his entire attention at Dom. The thought is uncomfortable.

“Can I speak to you in my office, Nick?”, comes the inevitable request as the general shuffling begins following Ace’s threat to see them again tomorrow.

Dom’s chest shrinks two sizes. He knew there was another reason for the staring. Ignoring the gleeful comments on the way, he follows the tall figure and closes the door behind them. Shuts out the rest of the world for now only these icy blue eyes will judge him.

“There really is nothing new?”

He shakes his head. “Private property with no one watching over it, readily accessible. I told you, it’s a miracle the body was found at all.”

“The teens?”

“Promised them no trouble if they had any info. They seem to understand we don’t care about them trespassing any more than we do about the weed, but they genuinely don’t know anything. Dead ends in every direction.”

“Dude got sacked, no wife, no kids, no close friends, no money. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“Old enemies”, Dom suggests, wondering where this idea came from. They investigated the angle already and came up empty. “Or it was a case of wrong place, wrong time.”

Ace nods, more in acknowledgement than agreement, expression cloudy. He paces like a tiger when he’s dissatisfied, a pinball going back and forth, repelled by the one wall covered in work-related paraphernalia and its opposite, adorned with respectable pictures, photos and awards. Dom is too exhausted to follow him and focuses on the perfect cable management visible to guests.

He knows how it explodes into wild chaos as soon as it’s out of sight, just as he knows better than to interpret this fact in any way.

“Dräuer holding you back?”

Dom doesn’t catch the derisive snort in time. The man is an anchor. Obviously deserves his retirement in two years’ time, despite the fact he’s mentally already there, and so he’s being passed around. It was Dom’s turn when the case came in. “I make do.”

“If you need more resources, if you need Kötz back, let me know.”

Management’s newest ploy: appear approachable and clad the ‘no’s in velvet. Nothing’s changed except for these phrases – if there’s anything I can do, if you have any concerns, if there’s something on your mind… then what? They provide a pitiful smile and a warm handshake and next thing you know is you defending your boss to co-workers because you’re under the illusion he actually _cares_. Dom doesn’t warrant the empty promise with a reply.

He knows what’s coming. He can read it in Ace’s gestures, the restless drumming of fingers on his belt, _clackety-clack_ , the relentless glare of glacier-like irises from an angular face betraying Scandinavian heritage, if the flaxen hair hadn’t already been enough.

Dom widens his stance slightly and braces for impact.

They gasp for air like there’s a sudden shortage, Dom almost knocks a frame off with his shoulder, and they’re not even kissing yet. It’s the result of two touch-starved, stubborn men too proud to let their desperation show until there’s no choice. Still, there’s been worse, their fingers aren’t shaking nor do they lose themselves entirely – instead it’s a few deep kisses accompanied by a half-hearted embrace. Ace’s obsession is his own mouth, whether it’s talking, singing, eating, sucking dick, and there’s hardly any room for other sensations.

Their words belie the passionate nature of their actions, for when Ace rests his cheek against Dom’s beard, he mutters: “Tuck your shirt in.”

“Fuck off”, says Dom, and Ace laughs, and everything becomes a little more bearable. It always does in his physical proximity.

“You alright?”

He just nods, puts his chin on Ace’s shoulder and closes his eyes. If it weren’t for these oases amid the vast desert of human ugliness he has to traverse each day, he’d probably not be getting up in the morning at all. Ace might be one of the most vexing people he knows, but right now he’s also a blessing. Pressed against him, he can feel the black sludge drain, the stress pour out of him bit by bit. “Busy day?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I won’t have time to come over today. Again. I know we haven’t seen each other for a week.”

“We see each other here”, says Dom and they both know it’s not the same. Ace kisses him again, raids his mouth for a good minute and leaves behind pleasant memories where a faint sense of doom had been occupying Dom’s brain. They untangle and let the distance between them remind each other of their obligations.

“One more thing”, Ace announces and his casual tone of voice demands full attention. “Some woman complained, I think a resident you questioned.”

His lips are dry. “About?”

( _you_ )

“About you. She sounded furious and said you

( _screamed_ )

insulted her because she wouldn’t cooperate.”

His knees nearly buckle. Terror spreads like a bushfire and cold sweat builds up underneath his clothes. He’s thrown back to a repertoire of phrases hurled at him

( _thin ice, watch yourself, demotion, shoddy work_ )

and the implicit threats. He can’t afford this. Not at all. When he replies with a quiet: “I didn’t”, he doesn’t sound believable even to his own ears.

Ace’s gaze hasn’t once left him. He must know. Silence stretches on for a second feeling like an eternity. When he speaks, he sounds just as unconvincing as Dom. “I didn’t think there was any merit to what she was saying. Just wanted to give you a heads up, in case we’re forced to look into it. Talk later.”

  


* * *

  


Reality fades in gently, like a sunrise: much like birds waking and audibly greeting the new day, sounds begin penetrating the thick veil of unconsciousness. It’s a black hole he’s crawling out of, noting one aspect of existence after the other – the unusual warmth of his bed, the pressure on top of his head which is threatening to turn into a migraine, the pitter-pattering of rain drops against the window. This must be what dragged him awake for he finds nothing else amiss, other than the prevailing darkness of his bedroom indicating the late hour of the night.

That, and an uncomfortable premonition of _something_.

It was like the time he walked into a room supposed to be his grave: hardened yet familiar faces greeting him as usual, casual gestures somehow aimed at him, a suspicious hand pretending to search for a lighter disappearing inside a jacket, and Dom guessed the tension more than he perceived it. Something is

( _broken_ )

wrong.

His gaze wanders and his body adjusts to a more comfortable position, his arm brushes against -

Instantly, he’s made of adrenaline. He bolts upright, ripping the blanket aside right as he notices eyes fixing him with a piercing stare, and his lungs shrink impossibly; all he can do is stop himself from hyperventilating because _there is someone in his bed_. The image of a stranger glaring at him with invisible irises – a purely white eyeball and pupil is all that’s there – burns into his brain and fuels his fight response. Terrified, he tries to strike and finds his wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Nick, Nick, it’s me.”

Familiar voice in an unfamiliar body: his mind makes no attempt to control his alarm until he stops thrashing like a caught animal and realises it’s indeed someone he knows. The only person to award him with this literal nick-name.

“Calm down. It’s me. Everything’s

( _fucked_ )

alright.”

“How’d you get in here?”, Dom rasps, making the conscious effort to unclench his muscles. He’s light-headed. He didn’t let Ace into his flat. Ace doesn’t have a key, he’s only stayed over three times so far.

Ace releases him hesitantly and switches on the bedside lamp, allowing Dom to see his bewildered and sleepy expression, bearing no resemblance to the grimace Dom thought he witnessed in the half-dark. “You… you invited me over. Said you wanted company.”

His head shakes itself. “I didn’t. You were busy. I went to bed alone.”

More insistent now: “Nick. We texted around ten, you suggested I spend the night, so I came over and we went to bed almost immediately.” His voice is level. Reasonable. Calm.

Shaking fingers grab the phone next to the pillow, nearly dropping it, and discover the evidence supporting Ace’s claims – even though Dom remembers none of it. To him, his words sound pathetic, desperate, hardly like himself. He basically _begged_. Time once again eludes him and though he has a clear vision of his evening routine, of starting a new tube of toothpaste, of setting his alarm, of adding to the pile of laundry on one of his chairs, he can’t say for sure whether it all happened today or the day before.

( _There’s a black hole warping his memories, everything loops,_ _some disappears altogether._ )

Ace coaxes him back under the blanket and pulls him against his broad chest while they go back to sleep. It should be reassuring, but all Dom views against his own closed eyelids is the grotesque, empty eyes staring right into his soul.

  


* * *

  


“These cases are the worst”, says Krause.

The other end of the line remains silent, so the office gossip trickling in gets through to Dom. Opposite him, Kötz is visibly uncomfortable and trying to cut his conversation short, but Krause is uncooperative and refusing to even leave his chair.

“Having to scrape poor morons off the asphalt is part of the reason why emergency services never last long, you know. Trying to resuscitate a dude with his guts hanging out just gets to you, and it’s always the worst when you can actually watch them croak.”

Kötz is fidgeting and it’s only now that Dom realises he’s angled away from him, as if to make sure Dom never becomes part of their talk. The next words reveal why: “But nothing is worse than having to deliver the bad news. No mother should outlive her own son.”

Dom’s expression goes carefully blank.

“Dude was in his thirties, should’ve known better than drink and drive,

( _found enough beer bottles to account for the level of alcohol still in his blood_ )

but people keep overestimating their booze all the time. Think they can take it. Or they’re so used to it they don’t even feel it anymore.”

( _went to sleep and never woke up again_ )

At times like these, the urge to call is unbearable – just tap the contact near the top of his list, hear his carefree voice, the easy laugh, a reassurance of ‘I’m still here, of course I am, I’ve always been and always will be’, but of course

( _didn’t feel a thing didn’t feel a thing didn’t feel a thing just never woke up again_ )

of course he’s fucking gone. Went peacefully and left a crater in Dom’s life. It’s the most selfish act Dom has even been a victim of. Like removing one of his senses. Like cutting off a limb. 

( _a mother should never outlive her son_ )

( _father should never outlive_ )

( _twin should never_ )

A voice rips him back into reality: “Yes, this is civil engineering Meyer, I’m told you have a few questions about one of our properties?”

He can’t remember why he needed to speak with this person. Mutely, he stares at the unpainted skin on his forearm, the little patch he purposefully left blank so the skewed star-shaped birthmark

( _which is mirrored on his personal mirror, left on his, right on Ced’s_ )

wouldn’t be covered up. Its twin has disappeared as well, probably digested by creepy-crawlies.

The unrelenting tone signifying his conversation partner’s impatience prompts him to put down the phone himself. And as he leaves to get some fresh air, he hears Kötz hiss behind him: “Watch what you say, man. You know his brother died last year.”

Dom exits with the feeling of being watched accompanying him once again.

  


Nicole never divorced him.

Bravery maybe, undying loyalty, but stupidity for sure must’ve played into this decision – between the erratic nature all Brunsmeiers carry in their blood and the dangers implied by this line of work, she would’ve had all reason yet chose not to. She’s given birth to a new generation of addiction-prone, choleric, too-intelligent-for-their-own-good Brunsmeiers and hopes they can break the cycle. Back then, she said yes despite all the stories surrounding their dad.

Dom has watched rose-coloured infatuation turn into bitter resoluteness. He’s always admired her for her practical nature and no-nonsense attitude, which is why he gave the two his blessing: she’s a woman capable of keeping up with Cedrick. She would neither weigh him down nor sink herself. Whenever the two were on break, allowing distance to do the healing, Dom let her see his face, dropped in, shot a message to ensure she wouldn’t give up. In a way, his support was inherently egoistical. As long as she was around to mitigate the damage, Dom didn’t have to.

There’s no doubt she blames herself. Years, decades of same old, same old, only this specific time something happened to her husband and therefore she clings so desperately to this notion of responsibility that she’d rather ruin herself than accept something the doctors called

( _a freak accident_ )

an act of god. Coincidence. She believes in karma. She doesn’t believe in pure chance.

And so Dom doesn’t dare face her. Nicole might look at him and

( _point the finger elsewhere_ )

see Cedrick and break down fully. Her sons need her so they don’t also end up choking on their own vomit in a dingy hostel, alone -

  


_Tell me not to_ , writes Dom and attaches the latest snapshot.

If he didn’t already feel inebriated, he’d judge himself for such a cliché cry for help. He’s no teenager anymore, graffiti-ing morose song lyrics onto abandoned warehouses along the local train tracks, slamming doors both in school and at home, trying to tattoo himself with loose ink and a safety pin. Where youth angst might’ve been directed at society as a whole, now his adversary is much more tangible.

Its name is Warsteiner, its label pale gold and its strength 4.8%.

Time once again proved its fickleness as he suddenly found himself at his own kitchen table, staring at the open bottle with no recollection of the journey to this point. He’s been drier than a desert for exactly 360 days, refusing to become a second victim to this harsh and cruel mistress. He’s not certain how much Ace knows, how much Dom himself has told him and how much has travelled down the grapevine, but there’s no doubt he knows enough.

The smooth brown glass beckons him. Condensation is forming, giving him hope he bought it from a gas station maybe, somewhere with a fridge full of different beers, instead of having purchased an entire crate of 20, bless fucking Germany for providing it so readily.

Some of his colleagues down one at lunch. He’d earn sneers if they ever caught wind of his concerns.

He remembers its taste. The kitchen is unusually warm despite the grisly cold outside, so a refreshing -

The screen lights up before him. He realises it’s not warm at all, he’s sweating for an entirely different reason.

_I don’t have to_ , is Ace’s reply.

( _you won’t do it because you’re not him and you’ll never be_ )

Nausea overcomes him. Sudden, overwhelming nausea takes hold of his body together with the bone-chilling sensation he’s encountered before: someone is looking at him. The back of his neck tingles uncomfortably and adds to the violent reaction he’s having in response to… what? His mouth fills with spit and his stomach starts convulsing, yet his eyes dart around to find the culprit who’s causing his panic. Is someone in his apartment?

He can’t control himself anymore and barely makes it to the sink before he forcibly ejects the contents of his stomach, tasting bitter bile towards the end. Even when it’s all gone, he retches drily, the pitiful sounds echoing through the entire flat. He’s left weak, imbalanced, shivering.

When he pours out the piss-coloured liquid a few minutes later, the prickling at the base of his skull is still there.

  


* * *

  


“You still haven’t told me whether you’d like me to be there on Tuesday.”

The door in Dom’s back is opened, so they’re a respectable distance apart. Ace is installed behind his desk, voice lowered but seeming professional, like he always does, with his shirt perfectly ironed and an infuriating order on his desk. Dom longs to climb into his lap and remain for a week just so he won’t have to face

( _them_ )

the choice he’ll inevitably have to face. Instead, he focuses on the picture frame now occupied by a fluffy dog. He remembers whose photo it used to hold: a blonde, smiling beauty.

“For Halloween?”, he asks.

“Yes. But not because of that.”

Both of them refuse to speak his name out loud, or reference the occasion. As if Dom could ever view the date as anything other than the day

( _the unspeakable happened_ )

he was amputated. “You can’t.” His answer is automatic and warrants the lift of an eyebrow. Were Ace’s eyes always this light? “I have the day off. You don’t.”

“I’ll make time for you.”

“Why?”

Ace acts like he hasn’t heard the question. “And what about today? Do you think we can get together for some quality time?”

He nods on autopilot. The weekend before him stretches infinitely and will likely feel like a single second once it’s passed, but in Ace’s company, he at least won’t go ballistic. They’ll fight about something – they always do after a certain amount of hours together – and Dom’s own skin will feel alien, his life a lie, he an impostor, but it’s better than the alternative. Ace’s assuredness finds him wanting and his obstinateness rubs Ace the wrong way, and they won’t stop kissing for most of it. Either they argue, or they behave like a semblance of a real couple, and Dom still isn’t sure which he prefers.

“I’ll be off at seven, latest. Mark it in your calendar so you don’t forget about it this time.”

His joking tone betrays nothing of the sheer terror he must’ve seen in Dom’s face that night, and his steel blue eyes don’t even seem to blink. Before he can stop himself, Dom blurts out: “Why do you keep staring at me?”

Ace, the man who’s unfazed by nearly everything, seems taken aback by the unexpected comment and Dom is about to retract the question when his boss simply says: “I like

( _judging you_ )

looking at you. What, are you complaining?”

He can’t back out now. “You do it constantly. The past few days, you’ve been looking at nothing but me.”

“Are you sure? I’m not certain I know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t. You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I really don’t, Nick. I generally try not to be obvious about us.”

“Not that kind of staring. More like you expect me to

( _break down_ )

… I don’t know. It’s unnerving. Stop it.”

Ace leans forward and, with all the authority and lack of empathy of a superior, asks: “Nick. Are you doing alright?”

“Forget it.” Dom strides out of the office, rubbing over the back of his neck to dissipate the tingling threatening to spread. On his way to his desk, he passes Kötz looking like he’s got fuck-all to do.

“Trouble?”, his former partner-against-crime wants to know and nods in Ace’s general direction.

“More status updates”, Dom replies, curt.

“He’s been a pain in the arse recently”, Dräuer chimes in. “No idea what’s up.”

“Probably misses his ex.”

“Oh, did she break up with him?”, asks Streicher, who’s never caught up on office gossip.

“He with her”, Kötz explains. “She

( _had some unresolved daddy issues, got catfished, sent nudes_ )

cheated on him. Happened a few months ago.”

“Hey, you can ask him out, then, Dom”, Streicher refuses to let the topic die. “Didn’t you express some interest in him around that time?”

Kötz shoots him a curious glance.

  


* * *

  


Enjoying it is as natural as breathing. The pleasure rolls through him in waves, comes and goes with every downward thrust of Ace’s hips, announced by the movement of his thighs against Dom’s sides, accompanied by sprawled-out fingers balancing on his chest. In moments like these, he forgets about the asymmetry of their bodies and dissolves into the here and now, focusing on the glorious sensations rushing through his system and even trumping his instincts. His hands are bound, his sight robbed, and all he can do is meet Ace with his lower half by straining upwards.

He requested the blindfold as they shed clothing all over the floor and he regrets not the fact that these eyes won’t be able to hypnotise him during all this. It’s begun to weird him out a little.

They’re vocal and harsh, biting words exchanged between sharp kisses; pleasure with an edge is the way Dom likes it and the fingernails leaving crescent indents in his tattoos provide exactly what he needs. It’s a balance act and Ace is a professional, navigates the tightrope with flair and elegance, leaving Dom breathless in more ways than one.

Back then, days of coincidental meetings led to deliberate meetings, though when Ace appeared on his doorstep, brimming with energy, the first words he said were _we’re not gonna fuck_. The wound too fresh, the betrayal too present, so Dom respected his wish and only jerked him until Ace melted in his grip. Impulsive and temperamental makes for a volatile combination. And yet there’s this banality in all of it: Ace kisses him before they go to work, Dom makes him breakfast, they plan future vacations.

In spite of all the commonplaceness, it feels stolen. Temporary. Like having claimed a prize erroneously awarded, and he’s waiting for the judges to realise. During sex, he alternates between ecstasy and mild distaste. There are days when Ace’s impatience is boorish.

Today, Dom’s essence feels just as rushed.

Ace pants into his mouth when he comes, as always. His tell is his sudden quiet, the calm before the storm, when he gathers his focus to push himself over the edge. Dom gets progressively louder until he culminates in an almost pained moan which Ace greedily licks off his lips. They wind down together, maximum bodily contact, and this is a concrete reminder as to why they’re doing it.

For once, it’s calm. Dom’s mind rests.

He expects Ace to untie him and mentally steels himself for the unwavering gaze sure to greet him. He expects to be coddled, or do some coddling. He expects to take a shower and curl up in bed after.

He does not expect Ace to slide down and stuff Dom’s softening cock down his throat.

His reaction is visceral. The overstimulation blinds him and for a few seconds he refuses to believe these inhumane sounds stem from his own vocal chords. Ruthless hands press him into the mattress, an unforgiving weight pushes his lower body down and all he can do is thrash with his useless, bound arms, his poor hazy head, his toes. It actually _hurts_ , and not just the restraints eating into his wrists, not just his clenched jaw, not just his sensitive dick: it’s also the breach of trust.

When whimpering becomes his only defence, it slowly distorts into something akin to pleasure. Kitten licks no longer cause flinching and gentle suction soothes the memory of pain, and before long he can’t imagine a moment where life wasn’t made up entirely of earth-shattering _lust_. His body struggles against the ministrations still, but when he eventually climaxes, all is forgotten. He seizes up, lips parted in a silent scream, his orgasm powerful enough to last forever. When he sinks back down, he can’t feel his legs.

Ace treats it as a victory, as he’s wont to do. Any strong reactions he elicits feed his hungry hungry ego, no matter their quality. The smug smile is familiar by now, just like the mandatory kisses he peppers on Dom’s lips after removing his shackles.

Once his

( _lover_ )

( _boss_ )

( _only source of joy_ )

( _fuck toy_ )

has sauntered into the bathroom, there are tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He’s never felt this satisfied and violated at the same time and a not insignificant part of him wants to

( _beg him not to take this_ _haven_ _away, don’t taint what little they have_ )

confront Ace about his tendency to assume, to claim, to shrug off. But he knows he won’t, at least not now. Not when he can wrap his arms around a warm body a while later and pretend he’s safe.

  


In the middle of the night, he wakes up to a suffocating weight on his chest and opens his eyes to a face mere centimetres from his own.

Pale eyes bore into his being but screaming is not an option, moving is already impossible and so Dom is forced to silently meet the accusing stare, weather the horror numbing his limbs, try to gain back control of a mind going haywire. He’s ice cold. He doesn’t feel a breath against his skin. He doesn’t know whether he’s dreaming.

He doesn’t know whether he dozes off again or whether he spends the entire night wide awake in mute terror, but daylight comes and he chooses to interpret the bone-chilling sight as a result of last year – a consequence of losing a loved one. No more than a nightmare, a fleeting image created by an overloaded mind.

  


( _it’s just that he knows exactly why it’s here and what it wants from him he knows why it’s here he knows what it wants he knows_ )

  


* * *

  


Tomorrow is the anniversary.

The entire world seems informed. His phone suggests flower bouquets, unprompted. Billboard slogans contain vague, threatening messages hidden behind joyful slogans. Melancholic notes drip out of every speaker he passes and faces look haggard in the shadow of an army of umbrellas.

Dom is delirious.

Respite and time have formed an alliance, excluding him from their sinister pact. He only makes it to work because of his alarm, silenced by Ace’s aimless groping a few hours ago. Dom drives them, the back of his neck so tense he can hardly look aside. Tense and tingling. He doesn’t use his rear view mirror because he can’t bear to meet the reproachful gaze.

He’s not mentioned the staring again. He knows

( _he deserves it_ )

it wouldn’t matter.

  


The dent in his desk is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Dräuer gives up after the third time, loudly exchanging judgmental comments in the hallway, and leaves by himself. Dom suspects they’d have caught their guy already if only he could bring himself to fucking _care_.

During the meeting, he never raises his gaze once. He can’t. He doesn’t want to be confronted with it.

  


Minutes later, he sways in place and desperately tries to remember whether he’s drunk. The words pouring from Ace’s mouth are impossible though he witnesses them manifest letter by letter, leave his lips and shatter on the carpeted floor separating them. The door is closed and yet they’re apart, and he doesn’t understand it.

“Just to clarify – not that I think we need to, but I feel better if I ask –, you didn’t touch her at all, did you? Maybe a push that could be misconstrued as a shove? Anything that could _seem_ like you hit her.”

“No”, Dom says tonelessly. “I

( _can’t fucking remember_ )

didn’t touch her. Of course I didn’t.”

“Good. Still, this is a serious allegation and it will be treated as such. Shame Dräuer wasn’t with you, he could’ve backed you up. Why wasn’t he there, by the way?”

( _I sent him away he was getting on my nerves, whole neighbourhood a bunch of fuckers, bullshitting to look good not even concerned about someone dying,_ _they should all_ )

“He was on a different floor. Finishing up with another resident.”

“Right.” Ace’s eyes are pale, so pale. Almost white. “The woman says she’s got evidence, but I doubt it. I’ll let you know how it went when we’ve reviewed it tomorrow.”

Dom is sweating. Frost is creeping up his legs. He’s fighting down a full-body shudder. “Yes”, he says. Any more, and his voice would waver.

( _this will end him_ )

“Speaking of – any new leads?”

He shakes his head. Dräuer might’ve mentioned something, but he didn’t catch it.

“It’s like no one cared when the guy was still alive, and now nobody cares that he’s dead. Well, keep it up, Nick. I’ll see you later.”

White noise is roaring in his ears. “Don’t come over today.”

Ace stops rifling through the perfectly sorted files on his desk and goes very still. Dom isn’t sure whether he’s still breathing. “Why?”

“Don’t.” He turns around and consciously deletes Ace’s words

( _d_ _ude got sacked, no wife, no kids, no close friends, no money_ )

( _no one cared when he was still alive_ )

from his memory.

  


Holding watch had been his only hope. Wrapped in a protective blanket, fleece his armour and coffee his weapon of choice, the TV blaring in oversaturated inconsequentiality exhibited in a starkly illuminated room, holding on to the futile expectation to provide enough stimulation to escape this night’s obligation of having to recharge. He gets up every half hour, stretches tired limbs and fights down the circulation-related darkness crawling into his vision from each side whenever he stands too quickly. Sugar helps to the point of nervous leg jumping but saps too much of his energy.

He doesn’t survive the crash.

When he was young, the night terrors manifested as phantoms in dark corners, as shadows incarnate where in broad daylight there had been a jacket thrown over a chair, or a wardrobe door left open. In time, they evolved and managed to evade most precautions – or they simply struck when he was most vulnerable. Instead of scaring him right before nodding off, they now invaded his mind and pulled the strings from which his dreams were woven. He was powerless to struggle, except for one escape route they never managed to obstruct: waking up. Dom had become adept at ripping himself out of nightmares.

Which now only deepens the petrifying horror of realising he _ca_ _n_ _’t_ wake up right after the creature has wrapped its spindly fingers around his ankle.

Its appearance indescribable, Dom is at once incapable of tearing his gaze away and mesmerised by its manifestation. He refuses to call it human because no living being he’s ever encountered causes such a pounding headache simply by _existing_. The edges flicker. And just like a tired eye might find random patterns in the spacing of words on a book page, he catches glimpses of something underneath. Something wearing Ace. Something which isn’t quite contained within the constraints of a human body.

The TV screen is changing pictures still, but all sound has stopped and the resulting dead silence is somehow more unsettling than if the creature made any noise while crawling up his body. It’s unaffected by the lights, the caffeine, the blanket. It only has eyes for Dom. And there are too many – he can’t fully focus on them, guesses rather than knowing, but there are too many eyes. Too many limbs. The parts not quite tangible are fleshy, a pinkish-grey, a dead colour.

Dom knows why it’s here. But he can’t. He _can’t_. He needs to go on, keep living, pretend he’s not just an empty shell, act some more – he’s good at it, people have always told him he is and he took it as a vague insult. If he gives himself up now -

It’s not Ace anymore. The flaxen hair stays, but the general features have changed into those of Dom himself, only

( _not him, not himself_ )

they’re slightly different.

It’s Cedrick.

There’s a guttural noise, a clear indicator of something very wrong, the exact same sound of that night -

Dom’s cheeks are wet, his chest is aching. He’s on the bathroom floor, leaning against the toilet and sobbing so violently his entire body shudders and convulses. The taste of vomit is on his tongue, bile and salt, a little bit of copper. He can’t stop, he cries so hard he can’t see, can’t think due to the throbbing in his temples, and even when no more tears will come, he sobs drily with his

( _bloodied_ )

hands moving on their own, scratching over his naked thighs until there’s crimson gashes.

Fingers wrap around his wrists and gently pull them away.

“I killed him”, he chokes out, directed at the blurry figure before him. “I fucking did it. I killed him. You hear? It was me.”

The fingers withdraw.

“My own -” He lets out a howl which echoes hollowly in the small room. “I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t endure it a day longer.”

Silence.

“He was – he was a monument to my guilt. You don’t understand, whenever I saw him, whenever I caught a glimpse of that fucking wheelchair I heard it again, heard that fucking _scream_ -” It’s etched into his mind, the shock and horror at realising just how badly his prank had gone wrong, Cedrick on the floor screaming, screaming, _screaming_. “I crippled him. I couldn’t bear it. He said he forgave me but I knew, I knew, I saw it, he hated me for it.”

Each word feels like a stab in his throat, but now that he’s started, he wouldn’t stop. He needed it to go away. He needed peace.

“I suffocated him. I made up an alibi. I knew what to look for, how to do it. We all do. Every single one of us has thought about it, right? How we’d do it if we ever got the chance. If there was ever anything worth doing it for.”

“Nick.”

He can’t tell if Ace sounds angry, disbelieving, aghast. “No. Shut up.”

Again, silence. He continues.

“It’s fucking over. I contacted your ex. I sent you those screenshots. I wanted you.” All fight has left him. He’s utterly drained. Empty. “And yes, I punched the bitch who complained about me. Just so you know what to expect.”

Ace looks at him. His eyes are a vibrant shade of aqua.

“I’m done”, Dom mutters. “Get out.”

And as the symptom of his misery, the catalyst for his marrow-deep guilt and disgust and shame leaves, follows his order without protest by getting up and exiting the room, the only person who still gave a shit about Dom leaves with it.

But he’s long understood that he can’t have one without the other.

  


* * *

  


The crisp autumn air numbs his face. The rest of him has been desensitised a while ago, hardly registering the clothes on his body, the ground below his feet, the faint sunlight peeking through the blanket of clouds. Despite his phone’s urgings, he’s come empty-handed and is unsurprised to find freshly cut flowers already adorning the simple stone. It’s well-maintained for now, but if the surrounding plots are any indication, this is likely to change.

Knowing his time is limited helped fell the decision: if he’s not to walk as a free man for years to come, he’d like to offer whatever he can. What little he can. There can’t be an apology as his deeds are unforgivable, and neither will there be closure – whatever the word is meant to convey anyway. He doesn’t even know what either of those options could look like.

Seeing his own name engraved with such a solemn finality hammers it home. The one man who’s accompanied him for his entire life will never invite him over again. Will never witness his sons graduate or found a family of their own. Will never retire, or repair the watch Dom gave him years ago, or pet his cat -

He’s cried enough. They were crocodile tears anyway, as if a murderer’s emotions fucking counted. Like a dumb kid smashing the favourite toy in anger and whining about it later.

Somehow, facing his actions has calmed the storm that’s been raging on inside him. It’s almost serene. He knows what’ll happen now, has helped the process along so many times before this, and the knowledge is reassuring. He knows what to expect. He must’ve subconsciously come to terms with the repercussions since he cut out Nicole and the boys entirely, distanced from people, lost interest in work. It’s easier to give up an entire life if there are no more strings attached.

Except there’s one thin thread still wrapped around his little finger, tugging insistently. And he just can’t bear to cut it off.

He told Ace where to find him. Make it easier for the guys at work, so they don’t have to scare any neighbours or cause a scene by trying to locate him. Seeing him alone, however, is concerning.

Ace has given up his lunch break to buy flowers, it seems. For once, his expression is an exact mirror image of Dom’s own: exhaustion, worry, grief. With both of them wearing dark jackets, they don’t look so different anymore.

He’s fighting the urge to lean into him, to seek support from his executioner, but Ace is so solid next to him it’s nigh impossible. “I won’t tell anyone about us”, Dom promises quietly. “You don’t need to worry.”

Following a shuddering inhale, Ace asks: “What the _fuck_ are you on about.”

“It could look bad. A superior fucking someone who’s later convicted as a murderer. I don’t want to put that on you.”

They’re both facing the grave. Ace is quiet for a few seconds. “How did you do it?”

“Pillow. His own pillow. Got him drunk, then dragged him to bed.”

“There was no saliva on the pillow.”

“I put a towel in between – I know what they look for.”

“He choked. Nick.” A quiet insistence in his voice which Dom has never heard before. “There was absolutely no ambiguity about how he died. None. He choked on his own vomit. It happens rarely, but it happens.”

“Yes, I made it look -”

“Nick. You did not kill him.”

Dom’s lower lip quivers. “You can’t know that.”

“I do. Your phone tracked your location that evening, you visited him and then stayed at home all night.”

“I left it there.”

“You texted with Kötz for most of it.”

“I had someone else -”

“The hotel’s security cameras showed nobody. Nick. You did not do it. Listen to me: you did _not_ kill your brother. It was a terrible tragedy with which you had nothing to do.”

Dom’s eyelids are fluttering. Before him, the writing on the stone softens, his field of vision blurring. His face scrunches up and he rubs one eye with his sleeve. He’s not listening. He doesn’t want to listen.

“My ex-girlfriend really did cheat and while those screenshots didn’t help, I caught her in the act. That’s why I ended it.”

He feels Ace’s gaze on him, much too hot, burning his icy skin.

“And the complaint has been withdrawn. It was a bluff. It seems you never even raised your voice at the woman.”

Despite Ace’s iron composure, he can’t be trusted. Dom isn’t sure of his motives, he only knows Ace is lying, is a lying piece of shit trying to…

… to … 

To what?

“Nick. I know a liar when I see one. I know a few things about lying, but _I_ do it to look good. You’re the opposite, and it’s killing me. You’re killing me, Nick. If you can’t admit it for your own sake, do it for mine. Please, just do it for me. I know you care about me.”

This is what does it.

Dom sinks to his knees, feeling faint, and it says it all that Ace follows him down and gathers him up in an awkward side-embrace, neither fully committing, Dom feebly trying to escape. All the repressed memories flood in, all the projections

( _clings so desperately to this notion of responsibility that she’d rather ruin herself than_ _accept_ )

become crystal clear even as a major part of his brain attempts to hold on to his personal reality, a fantasy world he created to torture himself, a universe where he’s worthless and close to self-sabotage

( _no one cared when he was still alive_ )

to punish himself. He knows why.

“I bought that beer”, he mumbles. “I brought it over that evening. I thought he’d need a – a pick-me-up, it was his favourite brand, I, I wanted to do him a favour. And instead -”

“You did not kill him”, Ace reiterates against his cheek. “It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault. You need to forgive yourself. You need to let others help you.”

He’s wrong.

He’s wrong, but hearing these words out loud nonetheless sparks a glimmer of hope Dom thought impossible. He will never give up his own responsibility, that much he knows: he played a significant part in the death of his twin brother, and yet he can fathom letting go to some extent. It could be the odd sensation in his ribcage talking, the funny feeling in his stomach as he kneels here, in Ace’s arms. But if this is what allows him to rationalise his demons, then he’ll just not let go.

“I don’t know how”, he whispers and leans back to look into Ace’s eyes. His lover is wholly himself again, his stare determined and soft simultaneously instead of accusatory. His irises are of an iridescent blue.

Ace glances over his shoulder. “Here’s a start.”

And when Dom follows the direction, he sees Nicole approaching them with her usual efficient step, face contorted in sorrow and hurt, but Dom thinks he notices a hint of relief upon seeing him as well.

She _is_ a start. He can begin slow. If others are able to forgive him, maybe he’ll eventually follow.

  


With a deep inhale, he rises to his feet and steels himself for the imminent conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> I have [a tumblr!](https://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/)! Come and say hi 💖


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